I Am Beautiful
by TalvisotaKroenen
Summary: Kroenen thinks about his past. This is kind of a prequel to "Agony", explaining what makes Kroenen so obsessed with his body.


He sighs. Finally alone again. Standing there in the centre of an almost empty room, he looks lost. But where should he go, anyway... He takes a look around. Alone. So he loosens the straps that hold his old gas mask tight to his face - one of the rare moments he is not caring about any germs or bacteria, he is not afraid of his wounds getting infected. He pulls off the metal which still smells like him, reminds him of his glorious times, somewhen between 1933 and 1944 - it still feels like him. Without the mask, there seems to be no Kroenen. At least for himself. After so many years without mirrors; maybe he forgot what he looks like. But he knows what the mask looks like. This mask gives him a face. An appearance. Respect. Superiority. At least in his mind. "What might I look like?" he sometimes wonders. "No idea. But I know what I looked like." Once, there was a beautiful male face. Personification of the Aryan "Übermensch". Pure. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Incarnation of Aryan blood. The purest of humans. Pale skin. Beautiful cheek bones. Purification of German blood. Beautiful.

He could have had everything.

Women. Money - as this man is a gifted, well-trained surgeon. Political force and influence. And he had. Hospitals would have paid almost anything to have him work for them. In 1934 he became the man behind the throne. He had been Hitler's personal guard and his best assassin, the man whose attitudes and ideas influenced the Führer the most. And women would have died for him. But there would be no woman touching his body. His body belonged to him. And ONLY to him. Noone should ever touch him, noone would ever destroy this beautiful, clean, pure temple of a body. But... somewhen during his childhood, there had been someone... his uncle - specifically... After his father had lost a bet, and therefore lost his son in a certain way... At night, when Karl, a child of about eight years, laid in his bed, he came. Every night. Doing things, Kroenen never wanted. His uncle told him never ever to talk about what happened at night. In his bed. When young Karl had to suffer, to pay his father's dues. To pay an unimaginable price. At first, he didn't even understand what it meant. But later on, he knew. Sexual abuse. The reason for some aspects of his disorder. All the time he felt so dirty, so used. The ability to smile slowly faded, instead, a hollow, dull stare filled his eyes, the corners of his mouth hardly ever moving to form a smile. The bleeding, hurting wounds in his soul spat out hate. Burning white hate. "I had to pay for my father's mistakes. As an innocent, unknowing child." Hate.

Kroenen clenches his fists. "I hate you!" he shouts at the old photograph of his family, where there is his uncle, too. His lidless eyes stare at the middle-aged, brown-haired man, standing behind Karl and his brothers and sisters. He isn't able to understand, how that dirty, unashamed member of an obviously minor race could ever have dared to touch an Aryan boy. "It is your fault! All the suffering I went through, was caused by you..." During this sentence, his raspy, crackling voice fades to a whisper, as tears well up in his eyes. He would blink them away, if he could, but he simply has to stand it. He sits down on an old couch. It once stood in his beautiful residence in Southern Germany. Trying to focus his thoughts again, he sighs, wipes the tears away and concentrates on one sentence: "Noone will ever hurt my beautiful body again." Somehow, it seems to feel good to him, to embrace himself, enjoying the warmth of his body. "I am so beautiful..." he murmurs in his thoughts. Silently, as always, he raises his head, looking for a blanket or anything else to cover his shivering pelvis. "Never again..." he whispers to himself. "Noone will touch me ever again. My body belongs to me... It is mine... And noone will hurt it..." The soft words are calming him down. Meanwhile he found a woolen blanket, now hiding under it. It feels like protection... Burying his head in his arms, he sobs. He feels alone now. Lonely. Left alone by everyone. His slender, skinny arms close around his thin, dianty, but at the moment heavily shaking torso. He thinks about cutting himself again. To ease the mental pain. The imagination of the cold, clean blade of his scalpel kissing his skin, white as snow, releasing his pure, precious blood feels so... He cannot give a name to it. It is something between sexual arousal, orgasmic ecstasy and a feeling like caress, gentleness... maybe it is even love. Love for his own body. His body. His precious, beautiful body, that noone would ever be allowed to touch. The only person who should ever dare to lay his hands on his white, clean skin, is Karl himself. Absentmindedly he cuts deeper. His pants start bulging out in their front and his soft moans flow through the air. Suddenly, abruptly, Kroenen gets up, hurrying through the room. "A mirror... I need a mirror... I have to look at myself..." he keeps telling himself. After a few moments, and thanks to his obsession with tidiness, he manages to find one. He pulls the black cover from it, staring at his face. No eyelids are there to close his blue eyes. No lips are there to bite down on. Bare eyes. Bare teeth. Scars all over his once so angelic face. Obviously he had hurt one of his eyeballs once, in an attack of destructive, body dismorphic, morbid, desperate wrath. Slowly his hands wander upwards, touching the deep wounds, that are now burned by his salty tears. This is the first time he can't believe what he sees. Fascinated by his work, he allows one of his hands to move across his face. When he touchs one of his eyes, it titches, causing unpleasant pressing pain. Leaning forwards, he lays his palms on the mirror. "I am sorry..." he whispers to himself. Only inches away from the even glass, an imagination of kissing his reflected image manifests inside his brain. His voice lowered to a soft whisper, he starts to talk. "You are so beautiful..." he rustles again and again. It is caress to his soul. He feels proud of himself, as he hasn't felt for many deades. "I am the most beautiful human on earth..." he thinks, giving himself an adoring glance. "I am so beautiful..." Carefully, slowly he sews the deep, bleeding wound on his arm back together. Little, nice stitches. He yawns. After finishing his work, he sits down on his couch again, afterwards putting his mask on again. His beauty is only meant for him. Noone shall know what beauty is hid under the metal of his gas mask. But him. He lies down, his head now resting on a soft pillow. The woolen cover is warming him. Tired. Rolling up on the couch, he pulls the soft cloth over his head. Finally, he falls asleep. Calm. Silent. Completely satisfied and relaxed. Beautiful. Alone.


End file.
